I called him at Fort Dix.
“What’s new?” he said.
“I’ll tell you what’s new. You and I are going to write a new book for The Merry Widow.”
There was a pause. “I didn’t know you drank.”
“I’m serious. I’ve talked to the stars of the show. They want us.”
He was speechless.
The following day, I went to the theater where The Merry Widow was going to open. The show was being produced by the New Opera Company, headed by Yolanda Mero-Irion, a short, buxom, middle-aged woman with a high, shrill voice.
It was a first-class production. The choreography was being done by the legendary George Balanchine, who was one of the century’s foremost choreographers. Balanchine was of medium height with the well-developed body of a dancer. He had a friendly smile and a faint Russian accent.
The director was the brilliant Felix Brentano, and the conductor was Robert Stolz, who was a wonderful composer in his own right. The prima ballerina was Milada Mladova, a stunning young European dancer.
I had a meeting with Balanchine, Stolz, and Brentano, and we discussed the libretto.
“It must be as modern as possible,” the director said, “but we must not lose its period flavor.”
“Entertaining and amusing,” Balanchine said.
“Lighthearted,” Robert Stolz commented.
Right. Modern, but keeping the period flavor, entertaining and amusing, lighthearted. “No problem.”
Ben and I had figured out a way to collaborate. Since he was stationed at Fort Dix in New Jersey all day, working on training films, he would come into New York at night, where we would have dinner and work together until one or two in the morning.
My fears about writing a Broadway play had evaporated. Working with Ben made everything seem easy. He was incredibly creative and he gave me a confidence I lacked.
When we finished writing the first act, I took it to our producer, Yolanda Mero-Irion. I watched eagerly while she read the pages.
She looked up at me. “This is terrible. Dreadful,” she spat out.
I was stunned. “But we did everything that—”
“You’ve written a flop for me! A flop! You hear me?” Her tone was vicious.
“I’m sorry. Tell me what you don’t like and Ben and I will rewrite it and—”
She got up, glared at me, and walked out.
I was back to my first opinion. What made me ever think I was capable of writing a Broadway show?
As I sat there, contemplating the disaster that was about to happen, George Balanchine and Felix Brentano came into the office.
“I hear you have a first act.”
I nodded glumly. “Yes.”
“Let’s look at it.”
I was tempted not to show it to them. “Sure.”
They started reading it and I wished I were somewhere else, anywhere.
I heard a chuckle. It was Felix Brentano. And then a laugh. It was George Balanchine. They were both grinning as they read it.
They liked it!
When they finished, Felix Brentano said to me, “This is wonderful, Sidney. Exactly what we were hoping for.”
George Balanchine said, “If the second act is as good as this . . .”
I couldn’t wait to give the news to Ben.
At the hotel, I stayed close to the telephone, expecting the call from the Army Air Corps at any moment, and when I was out of the hotel, I always left instructions as to where I could be reached.
For singles, New York can be a lonely town. I had had some casual conversations with our prima ballerina, Milada Mladova, and we had gotten along well. One Sunday, when there was no rehearsal, I invited her to dinner and she accepted.
I wanted to impress her, so I took her to Sardi’s, the favorite restaurant of show people. I was still in uniform.
During dinner, Milada and I discussed the show and she told me how excited she was to be in it.
And finally dinner was over. I asked for the check. It came to thirty-five dollars. Very reasonable. Except that I did not have thirty-five dollars. I stared at the check for a long time. Credit cards were not yet in existence.
“Is anything wrong?” Milada asked.